Updated Apr 20, 2026 • ~10 min read
Chapter 9: The Shield
Nadia
Two weeks into living in the Montana safe house with Riot, Nadia realizes she’s developed a foolproof system for avoiding uncomfortable emotional conversations: every time he tries to get her to talk about her feelings, she initiates sex instead.
It’s not subtle, probably not healthy, and definitely violates the spirit of their friends-with-benefits agreement if not the actual letter of it—but it works, and that’s all that matters when the alternative is admitting that the boundaries she set are crumbling faster than she can rebuild them.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Riot says one afternoon while they’re on the couch together, Nadia supposedly working on code while Riot reads one of his impossibly dense philosophy books, their legs tangled together in a way that’s become unconsciously habitual over the past fourteen days.
“I’m thinking this algorithm is going to make me rich enough to buy my own country,” Nadia says without looking up, which is both true and a complete deflection because what she’s actually thinking is: *When did I start needing you this much?*
“Liar,” Riot says mildly, and when Nadia glances over, he’s watching her with that intensity that makes her feel simultaneously safe and exposed. “You’ve been staring at the same three lines of code for twenty minutes. Something’s bothering you.”
“Nothing’s bothering me. I’m fine.”
“Nadia.”
There’s something in the way he says her name—patient and knowing and gentle in a way that makes her want to both lean into it and run away—that tells her he’s not going to let this go.
“What do you want me to say?” she asks, setting her laptop aside with more force than necessary. “That I’m sitting here thinking about Viktor and wondering when the other shoe’s going to drop? That two weeks of silence feels more like the calm before the storm than actual safety? That I’m scared I’m getting too comfortable here and when reality intrudes it’s going to hurt worse than if I’d kept my walls up?”
“Yes,” Riot says simply. “I want you to say all of that. I want you to tell me what you’re afraid of so I can help you carry it.”
“You can’t help me carry it. That’s not how fear works.”
“Maybe not. But you don’t have to carry it alone.” He reaches for her hand, threads their fingers together in a gesture that’s become dangerously familiar. “Talk to me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
And here’s where Nadia should be honest, should open up and let him in and actually engage with the emotional intimacy he’s trying to build.
But opening up means being vulnerable, and vulnerable means weak, and weak means he could hurt her—not intentionally, maybe, but eventually, when this ends and he leaves and she’s left alone again with nothing but memories of what it felt like to let someone close.
So instead of answering honestly, Nadia does what she’s been doing for two weeks: she climbs into his lap, frames his face with her hands, and kisses him like she’s starving.
Riot kisses back—he always does, always responds to her touch like he can’t help himself—but after a moment he pulls away just far enough to look at her with an expression that’s equal parts frustrated and understanding.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says quietly. “And you know it.”
“I’m feeling like I want you inside me,” Nadia says, rolling her hips against him in a way that’s calculated to distract. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Nadia—”
“I’m feeling like it’s been at least six hours since we had sex and that’s approximately five hours too long.” She’s kissing his jaw now, his neck, finding the spots she’s learned make him lose his train of thought. “I’m feeling like I want you to stop asking me questions and start touching me instead.”
She feels the exact moment his resistance cracks, feels the way his hands tighten on her hips and his breathing changes, and she knows she’s won this round even as something in her chest twists with guilt.
“This isn’t healthy,” Riot says, but he’s already standing with her legs wrapped around his waist, already carrying her toward the bedroom despite the protest. “Using sex to avoid talking about your feelings.”
“Who said I’m avoiding?” Nadia kisses him again, harder this time, bites his lower lip just hard enough to sting. “Maybe I’m just feeling very physical right now. That’s allowed, isn’t it? According to our agreement?”
“The agreement was that we’d be honest with each other about what this is.”
“And this is me being honest that I want you and I don’t want to talk.” She’s working on his shirt now, needing skin contact, needing to lose herself in sensation before the conversation can go places she can’t handle. “Is that a problem?”
Riot stops walking, sets her down on the edge of the bed, and looks at her with an expression that makes her chest ache.
“It’s a problem if you’re using it as a weapon,” he says quietly. “If you’re trying to distract me from the fact that you’re scared and you don’t know how to tell me.”
“I’m not scared,” Nadia lies, and they both know it’s a lie but she says it anyway because admitting fear feels like surrender.
“You’re terrified,” Riot corrects gently, kneeling in front of her so they’re eye-level. “And I get it. I understand why letting someone close feels dangerous when everyone you’ve loved has been taken from you. But Nadia, you have to understand—I’m not asking you to love me. I’m not asking for promises or commitments or anything beyond what we agreed. I’m just asking you to let me know you. Actually know you, not just the version you think is safe to show me.”
“This IS me,” Nadia says, but her voice cracks on the words because it’s not, not entirely, and he knows it. “The rest is just—it’s baggage. Trauma. Things you don’t want to deal with.”
“What if I do want to deal with it?” Riot cups her face, makes her look at him. “What if knowing the broken parts is exactly what I’m asking for?”
“Why?” It comes out barely a whisper. “Why would you want that?”
“Because those parts are still you, Nadia. And I want to know all of you, not just the easy parts.” He’s so sincere it hurts, so genuine that Nadia wants to believe him even though believing feels like setting herself up for inevitable disappointment. “So yeah, tell me what you’re feeling. The real feelings, not the deflections. Trust me with them.”
Nadia stares at him, this man who’s supposed to be temporary, just a bodyguard and a convenient source of physical comfort while she hides from a mobster who wants her dead. This man who’s somehow become more than that despite her best efforts to keep him at arm’s length.
And she wants to tell him, wants to admit that she’s falling for him despite the boundaries and the rules and her absolute determination not to let this become real.
But admitting it makes it real, and making it real means it can hurt her, and she’s so tired of being hurt.
“I’m feeling like this is getting complicated,” she says finally, the closest she can come to honesty without completely breaking. “And I don’t know how to uncomplicate it.”
“Maybe we don’t have to,” Riot says, and there’s hope in his voice that Nadia wants desperately to crush before it grows into something neither of them can contain. “Maybe complicated is okay.”
“It’s not okay. We had rules.”
“Fuck the rules.” He says it with such casual certainty that Nadia almost laughs. “The rules were supposed to protect us, but all they’re doing is making you miserable and me frustrated. So maybe we should stop pretending we can keep this casual when we both know it stopped being casual approximately five minutes after we got to this cabin.”
“Riot—”
“I’m not asking you to marry me,” he interrupts before she can panic. “I’m not asking you to commit to forever or even to next week. I’m just asking you to stop using sex as a shield every time I try to actually talk to you. Can you do that?”
Nadia wants to say yes, wants to promise she’ll try to be more emotionally available, wants to give him what he’s asking for because he deserves it and because maybe she wants it too.
But what comes out instead is: “That’s all I’m offering.”
The words hang between them, brutal in their honesty, and Nadia watches Riot’s expression shift from hopeful to resigned to something that looks like acceptance even though it clearly costs him.
“Okay,” he says quietly, standing up and stepping back like he’s giving her space. “Okay. If that’s all you’re offering, I’ll take it. For now.”
“For now?” Nadia hates the way her voice sounds—small and uncertain and nothing like the confident CEO she’s supposed to be.
“For now,” Riot confirms. “Because I’m not giving up on you, Nadia. I’m not giving up on the possibility that someday you’ll trust me enough to let me in all the way. But I’m also not going to push if you’re not ready. So yeah—if physical is all you’re offering right now, I’ll take it. And I’ll keep hoping that eventually you’ll offer more.”
He’s giving her an out, Nadia realizes. Accepting her boundaries even though it’s clearly not what he wants, giving her time and space to figure out her feelings without pressure.
Which somehow makes it worse, because if he pushed, if he demanded, she could justify keeping her walls up.
But gentle understanding? Patient acceptance? That’s so much harder to defend against.
“I don’t deserve you,” she whispers.
“That’s not your call to make,” Riot says with a slight smile. “Now—did you actually want to have sex, or were you just trying to derail the conversation?”
Nadia considers lying, considers saying she was just deflecting so they can go back to keeping things simple and uncomplicated.
But what she says instead is: “Both. I wanted to deflect. But I also actually want you. Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” Riot says, and he’s already moving back toward her, already reaching for her like he can’t help himself. “Yeah, that’s okay. As long as you’re being honest about it.”
“I’m trying,” Nadia says, and it’s the most honest thing she’s said all day. “I’m really trying, Riot. It’s just hard.”
“I know.” He kisses her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth with a tenderness that makes her chest ache. “But you don’t have to try alone. That’s what I’m here for.”
And when he lays her back on the bed and loves her with a thoroughness that has nothing to do with urgency and everything to do with wanting to know every inch of her, Nadia thinks: *This is what I’m afraid of.*
Not the sex, not the physical intimacy—she can handle that.
It’s this: the gentleness, the patience, the way he touches her like she’s precious instead of just convenient.
It’s the realization that Riot Hawke doesn’t just want her body—he wants her trust, her honesty, her broken pieces and sharp edges and all the parts she’s spent twelve years hiding.
And the most terrifying part is that she wants to give them to him.
Wants to believe that maybe this time, loving someone won’t end in loss.
But wanting and doing are different things, and Nadia’s not ready to risk it yet.
Maybe not ever.
So she takes what he’s offering—the physical, the patience, the promise that he’ll wait—and she tries not to think about the fact that waiting implies there’s something worth waiting for.
Even though they both know there probably isn’t.
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